


Twelve Days of Searching

by Calacious



Category: General Hospital
Genre: Gen, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spinelli left a note behind, and Jason hasn't slept in days. He plans on bringing him home, but has to find him first. Can he bring him home in time for Christmas? Inspired by Bob Seger's "Turn the Page".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Days of Searching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suerum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suerum/gifts).



It’s Christmas Eve and Jason’s chilled to the bone. It has been twelve days. Twelve days since Spinelli’s note, (This isn’t my home.)his disappearance, and Jason hasn’t slept much, at all. He somehow doubts that this is what whoever wrote, “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” had in mind, and kind of hates the song at the moment.

Everywhere he’s been in search of his protégé, the young man he loves more than a brother, the song has been playing, reinforcing over and over again just how long Spinelli’s been missing.

Jason stretches. It’s been a long ride, and he’s not looking to return home anytime soon, not without Spinelli at any rate. The bar, hotel above it, looks inviting in a way that Jason remembers from a long time past.

He strides into the dimly lit room, his eyes instinctively searching the booths and counter, and coming up empty. He’s not here, Jason thinks, and tries not to let the disappointment deter him from what he needs to do next. It’s part of the routine, and he has it down pat now.

Blessedly, “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” is not playing. Some sad rock song from the seventies is bellowing from the old-fashioned juke box sitting in a dark corner of the musty bar. Jason can relate to the singer. He’s been on the road for days now, and cannot still the maddening voice in his head that is whispering to him that Spinelli’s in danger.

The kid’s been gone for twelve days. Twelve days. A lot can happen in twelve days. Hell, a lot can happen in twenty-four hours let alone nearly two weeks.

He walks up to the counter, slaps a twenty down, and asks, shoving the picture under the nose of the bartender.  
It’s the only picture he has of his roommate. Spinelli’s dressed as Santa Claus, his hair sweaty and plastered to his forehead. He’s smiling with laughter. The picture is creased, the edges worn from Jason pulling it out so often, showing it around, asking questions in his quest to find Spinelli and bring him home.

He’s prepared to leave, expecting a shake of the head, and an ‘I’m sorry, haven’t seen him,’ as has happened in every other place he’s been to. Instead, the bartender takes the picture from him, and it’s all Jason can do not to snatch it back. It’s the only picture he has, tattered or not, and he itches to have it back in his hand, safely tucked away in his wallet, snug in his back pocket where he can look at it anytime he wants to, and remember that once upon a time Spinelli was happy. Once upon a time, he was happy too.

“Yeah, the kid’s been here,” he says, and points toward the stairs, “went up ‘bout an hour ago.” He scratches his beard and tilts his head at Jason, eyeing him critically before he hands the picture back.

Something dark, cruel, promising some of the pain he’s been feeling ever since he found the note in Spinelli’s scrawl must’ve shown in Jason’s eyes because the bartender backs away a little and holds his hands out as though in surrender.

Jason tucks the picture into his wallet and fits it into his back pocket. The weight of it feels good. He leaves the twenty on the counter, but the bartender makes no move to take it.

“Third room on the right,” he says, and hedges a bit. Jason glares and the man swallows, speaks in a quivering voice, “Kid wasn’t alone.”

Jason’s seeing red. His legs move of their own accord. His heart hammers in his chest as he mounts the stairs three at a time. He doesn’t bother knocking, pulls open the door and is not prepared for what he finds.

He was expecting to find Spinelli sacked out in bed with some girl he picked up at the bar. A blonde, long-legged, bimbo with a baby doll face and sad, blue eyes.

What he finds instead causes his heart to stop, and the lecture he’s been building up to for the past twelve days dies on his lips. He knows there was something in there about selfishness and lack of common sense. Something about how the kid should know that he cares about him even if he never says the words, ‘I love you,’ – those words have never come easily for him. That Spinelli should know that Jason’s home is his home too. He shouldn’t have to say it.

The words stick in his throat and he’s momentarily stunned, staring at Spinelli. The bed. The tangled sheets. The clothing strewn haphazardly about the room. He wants to ask why, but his mouth opens and closes soundlessly.

The stench of whiskey and sweat and something else which Jason refuses to let his mind register co-mingles in the air, choking the words right out of him. His heart starts beating again and his head spins, but he fights the dizziness for Spinelli’s sake.

Spinelli’s body, much too still, is sprawled out and prone, lying naked on the bed. His breathing is much too rapid. On his back is a series of bruises, finger shaped and angry. His hips have the worst of it.

His wrists are tied to an old, rusty headboard by a gaudy tie festooned with rosy-faced santas, and Jason’s fumbling with the knots, ignoring the money – a mixture of tens and ones, a few silver and copper coins – littering the disheveled bed.

“Spinelli,” his voice is rough, soft, worried. He wonders if the boy – battered, bloody – can hear him.  
He wonders if this is Spinelli’s first time, or if this is how he’s spent the past twelve days. His mind bulks at the thought.

“S…stone cold?” Spinelli turns his head, glazed green eyes stare up at him with shame and he sobs. It’s a broken, heartrending sound and Jason forces himself not to look away even though he wants to.

“I’m taking you home,” Jason says, pulling him close, letting his warmth seep through to warm the ice cold boy.

The money falls unnoticed to the floor – the coins clattering on the wooden planks – as Jason scoops Spinelli up and wraps the soiled sheet around his shivering body. His clothes are dirty, useless. Jason will buy him new ones.

“I’m taking you home,” he repeats, and leaves, not bothering to shut the door behind him.


End file.
